


the first of many

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FIFA Ballon d'Or, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 04:29:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13990497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: It's 2004 and Cristiano Ronaldo's first Ballon D'or nomination and ceremony.  He promises himself, it won't be the last.





	the first of many

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caixa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caixa/gifts).



Paris 2004

“Ach, these awards,” the _mister_ groused in his thick Scottish accent, “they mean nowt in the scheme of things, there should be no I in a team.”

Cristiano tugged at the collar of his dress shirt. Starched almost to the point of discomfort, the tie notched under his Adam’s apple like a fist. His face warm with blushes, he didn’t know what to say, and dipped his head. 

“Cristiano,” Sir Alex ‘Fergie’ Ferguson cackled, patting Cristiano’s forearm with hard slaps. “Wait.”

They stopped at the doorway before it opened up into the great hall. 

“You need to breathe,” Sir Alex directed, “Like this, in--” he gestured with his hand, taking an exaggerated breath, bushy eyebrows raised in disbelief when Cristiano didn’t do it right away. “Come on lad, we won’t move from here if you don’t do. You’ll pass out otherwise.”

_In_

Everything overwhelming to the point where he could only process the world in pieces; the Eiffel Tower looming in distance outside the windows of their private car, as they were chauffeured in. The River Seine tripping and tumbling under the grand bridge with boats in its mighty wake. The traffic in Paris always a crawl, all the better to see the grand turrets of the municipal buildings that stood nearby the bridge, washed in gold light. 

_Out_

Them now here, in a great hall with chairs and people filling up in the chairs. The walls and ceiling high and arching as the Sé Cathedral in Lisbon. The entire area bathed in lights, shining down on everyone here. 

The great and the good, and in the distance, beyond the grid of chairs and seating places, were the prizes. As dazzling as a sun-splashed sea, and distant as the North star --- the trophies. 

Ballon d’Or, the golden orb in the shape of an old-fashioned football with the pentagon panels, pitched on a cluster of rocks that might not be diamonds, but just as precious. 

Cristiano focused on the golden orb, body softening like melting wax as the breath left him. His shoulders easing away from his ears, his eyes affixed to the prize. 

“That’s got you calm, now. Come, I’ll take you to your seat.”

“I know where it is,” Cristiano said, holding the brochure in his hand. 

Taking care not to crush it, because it was another marker of the path he had set himself. And this paper, a scrap of a map, another clue in the trail to greatness, directing him to be seated near to the stage. Close enough to trip up the stairs, stride across the mirrored floor, before taking the ball and raising it. 

Yes, a little over a year in England and he knew enough English to say thanks. 

His accent and pronunciation not yet where he wanted it. The words still sharp and foreign, stretching his mouth into unnatural positions. But. He knew enough of the language to be understood. Portuguese didn’t have the reach of English, not in terms of people knowing his name. 

Not yet, he promised himself, but they will. 

“It’s your first nomination, congratulations. Do you know who votes?”

Cristiano shook his head, still entranced by the scene in front of him, hearing the hum of people as they trickled into the hall, filling it like streams emptying into a river. Zidane in the distance, quiet and regal as a panther. Figo, a fellow Portuguese worthy of admiration, and elegant as a Lord. His smile scything against the deep tan of his skin, as he greeted older, grey-haired men with handshakes, or the occasional _bis_ on the cheek. Berbatov and Henry trailed in with ready smiles, comfortable in their suits, their shoes polished to a sheen. 

Henry especially, wearing his suit with the ease of someone who wore a training kit. A hand in the pocket of his slacks, his arm around his partner’s waist, and she smiled up at him, clad in diamonds at ear and throat. Noted how Henri titled his head at the person speaking to him, waited for a bit, and smiled. The grin having the power of a punch although his entire being screamed calm to the point of carelessness. 

He could do that, Cristiano thought, lifting his head with a tilt of his chin, titled it just so, and aimed a grin at his manager. Sir Alex Ferguson, less the _mister_ of Manchester United, one of the biggest clubs in football, and acting more like a father and a guide, smiled back. 

“No, I do not,” Cristiano admitted. “Coaches, or players?” He’d never thought about who voted before, only the honour of getting it when the announcement came in. 

“Aye, you’d think,” Sir Alex muttered, as they walked towards the seats arranged in the front for the nominees. The cameras on them all night, their holders in shadows, following their every move, and Cristiano didn’t mind. No worse than the Premier League, with its commentators and newspapers tracking everything he did. This was no worse, and probably a lot better, because of his exploits on the field. Didn’t he help his country to the Euro finals? And in his first year at Manchester United -- he got respect from _the mister himself_.

“One hundred and seventy-three football journalists, from all over the world. It’s like asking a blind man to build an elephant. Or someone to describe what they think love is. It is nonsensical. Not everyone sees with the same eyes.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Sir Alex smiled, his light eyes peeking from underneath silver-rimmed glasses and bushy eyebrows, looking like the gnome they had in certain gardens over here. “but you won’t care, because it’s the Ballon d'Or.”

“Are you saying I should not care?”

The _mister_ stroked his chin thoughtfully with his thumb and forefinger. Like Cristiano, he was also dressed in a suit, but in a looser silhouette. Tall enough for his head to brush Cristiano’s shoulder, and for him to put his hand on his shoulder comfortably, but he didn’t. 

“I’m saying, you should enjoy.”

“But --”

“We’ll speak after the ceremony,” Sir Alex answered. Raised an eyebrow, and smiled as they stopped by the row marked off for the Ballon d’Or nominees. “Here you are. We’ll speak later, lad. Oh!” He raised a hand, waving at someone behind Cristiano himself. Cristiano didn’t mind, the _mister_ was an important man, and a great coach. He had already taken up a lot of his time. Before Cristiano could form the words to say this, however, Sir Alex stopped him. “Later,” he said, before moving away.

 _Carlo! It’s so good to see you_ , his voice fading into the distance like everything else, as Cristiano saw the names of his fellow nominees affixed to the backs of the chairs like little plaques. Henry, Deco, Shevchenko, Nistelrooy, Zlatan... and others. 

“Mr Ronaldo?” 

Cristiano blinked, came back into himself at the tug of the voice. In front of him stood one of the many glamorous hostesses at this event, clad in a sleek column that offset her figure and bare shoulders. 

“ _Devo mostrar-Ihe o seu lugar?_ ”

“I speak English,” Cristiano answered, and if his tones were too sharp and defensive he didn’t know because the hostess’ expression didn’t flinch. Nor did she have any telltale signs of flush on her cheeks, and she was Snow White pale. 

“Of course you do,” she crooned, “my apologies.” Lifted up her hands, gesturing him in the direction to the end of the row. “Your seat is this way.”

At the end of the row, Cristiano observed later. 

Not in the middle, clustered in the centre as the crown jewels of the football world. Noted the cameras and the faces they lingered on. Enjoying himself as flashes of what he achieved in the year leading up to this. A part of his exploits one of the highlights of the whole montage; every player a force of motion, their emotions streaming across their face for everyone to see. 

Clapped when Shevchenko received the award, holding it up above his head, imagining himself up there.

***

After the awards finished, the party began. Held in a grand ballroom on the same premises, and after the ceremony, people now free to celebrate, to loosen up. The option of a clear floor if you wanted to dance to the live band, jacket off, and tie flying. Or if you wanted to be seated along the plush, comfortable chairs tucked alongside the walls.

Cristiano bypassing the drinking, because it was still December and Christmas fixtures coming up two days from now. He’d accepted greetings from everyone and exchanged them in return. Caught up with his _mister_ , his nose already purple from the amount of alcohol he was mainlining, a glass of whiskey in the claw of his hand. 

“It is after the ceremony,” Cristiano greeted, pitching his voice above the din. Everyone seated in the comfy, low chairs. The footballers’ wives and girlfriends flirting and laughing. Beautiful women leaving perfume and good spirits in their wake. Their smiles of varying shades of confidence made the atmosphere bright and delightful. 

“It’s too cold to go outside,” Sir Alex said, eyes fixed on the French doors on the other side of the room. Outside of the doors, the city clad in light, the Eiffel Tower towering over the city in its imperiousness. 

“So let’s go outside." 

“Ach, right then.”

December was cold, but not January frigid. After the mug and humidity of the bodies in the ballroom, the icy slap of cold refreshed, awoken his senses. 

“You say, not everyone sees with the same eyes,” Cristiano started, slipping his hands into his suit pockets. “But enough people saw the same thing in Shevchenko to vote for him.”

“Hmm hmm,” Sir Alex walked over and leaned against the stout stone balcony, taking in the view of the city before them. A grid of light spread like a glittering sheet as far as the eye could see. 

Paris, The City of Light, Cristiano remembered the City’s moniker from one of the travel shows his mum loved to watch whenever she visited him in England. 

“Does it make you value your achievements less, lad?”

Cristiano smoothed at the wave of his hair with the palm of his hand, closing the distance from door to join his _mister_ at the balcony. 

“I don’t-” he started. “I haven’t done enough.”

Sir Alex sipped at the whiskey from the squat tumbler in his hand, sending Cristiano a look from the corner of his eye. “Football is all about impressions. Yes, there’s the money and the noise around it, and there probably should be, or else you wouldn’t be here.”

“I want more,” Cristiano whispered, knowing he could say this around his trainer, because Sir Alex wouldn’t scoff, only nod knowingly as he did now. 

“You should. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take a minute to reflect on now. You helped get your country to the final of the Euros, and ripped up trees in England. You’re already shaping up to be the best and brightest in my eyes--- and as long as you keep performing, soon enough people will look at you with the same eyes.”

“I want to return next year. I won’t stop until it is mine.”

“There’s no _I_ in teamwork,” Sir Alex turned around, elbow propped against the top of the balcony, his whiskey glass in one hand. His forefinger tapping the side of the glass, and Cristiano stiffened at the warning. 

“Go for your honours, for sure, I won’t stop you,” Sir Alex’s nod had the weight of a blessing. “But if you risk and upset the balance of the team, I will bench you, lad.”

Laughter and music filled the space between them, Sir Alex’s eyes hard as steel, an unsettling contrast to his broad smirk and flushed cheeks. Cristiano nodded, because they’d always understood each other, even before he’d learnt to speak English. 

“Yes,” he said. 

“Good,” a sharp, bracing slap on his chest by Sir Alex. “We’re flying out at seven a.m tomorrow, don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” Cristiano tightened his hands into fists in his pockets. Waited until Sir Alex waved at him before closing the door behind him, leaving Cristiano on the outside looking in. A muscle twitching in his jaw as Shevchenko was lead on to the floor by a cluster of other players, the Ballon D’or under the crook of his arm. 

_You’ll be mine,_ Cristiano promised himself, his gaze never leaving the orb, even as the French windows hurred with the fog of heat, causing its form to fuzz and fade. _This is only the first_ .

**Author's Note:**

> For caixa! As promised. Enjoy (I hope).
> 
>   * Cristiano Ronaldo's first Ballon D'or nomination was in 2004. [Shevchenko won.](https://en.onefootball.com/remembering-cristiano-ronaldos-first-ballon-dor-nomination/%0A%20)
>   * Ronaldo won his first Ballon d'or in [2008](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/players/cristiano-ronaldo/3541051/Manchester-Uniteds-Cristiano-Ronaldo-wins-Ballon-dOr-and-says-best-is-yet-to-come-Football.html%20)
>   * Cristiano Ronaldo and Sir Alex Ferguson share a warm relationship [Ronaldo calls him his football father](https://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/news-and-comment/cristiano-ronaldo-sir-alex-ferguson-is-my-father-in-football-8323273.html%20)
>   * [Sir Alex Ferguson's Knighthood however came after his trebble success in 1999,which meant that he won the Champions League,the Premier league and the FA Cup in the same year!](https://www.quora.com/Why-was-Sir-Alex-Ferguson-knighted)
> 



End file.
